


good endings don't suit you, darling

by lackingother



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Or not, Timelines, conscious thought, he could have been happy, jason dreams of his alternate selves, questionable tbh, this is me breaking down my sadness into consumable pieces, what-ifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 15:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackingother/pseuds/lackingother
Summary: Here, he talks about books with Bruce, eats out with Dick, and makes pancakes with Alfred. He never writesdon’t look for me.[Implied/referenced character death, drug use, torture, abuse, neglect.]





	good endings don't suit you, darling

He falls into the images, tides of memories that he knows by heart, till he doesn’t.

He sees the countdown, the crowbar, the clown; he feels the explosion, a blast of half-met pain and short-lived agony--a blur, a goodbye, an ending to a story that had barely begun. That was where it should’ve stopped, rewinded, replayed. But where he knows oblivion and open caskets, there are instead pink scars and heart monitors and suspended time. His eyes are closed, but he feels the heat of tears and vaguely he knows they are not his because he should be dead, but he is not. He is lost, instead, but there is an anchor, a hand against his, the calloused fingers gentle in ways that never was.

His heart stops. He plummets. He becomes the earth; graves lay like halos on his chest, the six feet of dirt like skin, one that keeps grief hidden in the folds of the world like pennies and car keys. Tears lose themselves to rain. There are tremors; he feels himself quake, like feet creaking by the soul. He sees Bruce. A hand on his anchor. Jason almost wants to reach out and tell him that he is only lost.  

 

He is a boy again.

Red-headed, hot-headed, he is young, stupid, and loved. He is loved by two, or one. Loved by a mother he doesn’t know, one who doesn’t lay in wait of death. He is loved by a woman who knows better than drugs, and one who teaches him to be a fighter, a lover, a keeper. He steals paper planes from the sky and flowers from sidewalk cracks, not dope from alleyway skulkers, not bullets from loaded guns. He is loved enough to trust and forgive, to know that he will be beaten but never broken. He is loved enough to live.

 

He is not dead.  

The colors suit him like day and night; he is the passing light in the dark, an emboldened star in Gotham’s black skies. He stands, shines. Proud. He is still Robin, a Jason Todd who never leaves the dark coin of cruel fate on the mantle, the forever monument of tragedy, buried underground in the chambers of Batman’s heart. He still grins, all teeth, at the thought of rare Friday movie nights with the Dark Knight. Dick Grayson is still his big brother, and Nightwing swings by just to say _little wing_ , not _bruce, you never loved me._  They are brothers, here; they hang out on rooftops, bicker about who murdered who, and go out for chili hotdogs.

His colors are not jaded.

Here, he talks about books with Bruce, eats out with Dick, and makes pancakes with Alfred. He never writes _don’t look for me._

 

He is no longer a boy, no longer dead nor buried, but he doesn’t know how he becomes this.

He doesn’t know the cold, bruising air of flight, the searing magic of falling down, down, down. In this one, he never does get to see a quadruple somersault, or say hi to the flying boy who moved air and defied gravity. Gargoyles are still his friends, but he doesn’t have a favorite, and he doesn’t learn to perch on the edge like they do, like a guardian god, staring down the abyss. Here, Jason doesn’t wear yellow, green, or red--he never does. He wears a cross, and he bears prayers where he should harbor knives, rage, revenge. His face has worn lines but still, he smiles in pure belief, carrying his death with him like a talisman; resurrection to him is a miracle, a second chance, a dream. Children hold his hand, seniors kiss him hello and thank you.

God is his savior, Batman is not. His face isn’t a ghost. Jason Todd doesn’t know Bruce Wayne, and he is happy.

 

He doesn’t die, but it’s not tears he wakes up to.

There is no bomb; only more laughter, and bats. Bats, bones, and beatings. His bones break, his ribs break, he breaks. Brands. J. Joker. Jason. J. J. J. Just kidding. Insanity is twelve months, except he breaks much sooner than that. Batman isn’t too late, this time; he doesn’t come at all.

 

He dies. Dying is always easier.

His grave is familiar to him, to his whole body, but more so to his hands, his fingers, his nails that ripped the way to life and sky. He remembers. He claws, cries, calls, for him, for him, for Bruce, for Batman, _this is the moment his spirit dies, when his mind fades to nothingness_ , but then he is answered. Bruce screams back, and Jason wakes up to finally find him there.

 

He can live, or he can die, but he doesn’t work out either way.

 

On that rooftop, asphalt under his feet and rain on his face, laughter on his lips and insanity under his skin, he remembers running, but he also remembers staying. He remembers seeing red, the horror and the bitterness, but also the break in Bruce’s face when he wrenches the hood off, when he screams his return like a curse, holding the gun up as a memory (or a reminder), saying _so glad you could make it_ like a lifeline undone, leaving the hearts out to flay.

 _No,_ Bruce tells Alfred,  _this doesn’t change anything at all_.

He remembers, because, in this one, Batman doesn’t chase him. In this one, he runs and never stops.

 

He is still this Jason, the one still in his hollow graves, love like every broken thing he’s ever touched, and torched.

 


End file.
